


Breaking Bread

by bauble



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 03:55:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14417142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauble/pseuds/bauble
Summary: A new Somnacin blend gives even dreamshare veterans the chance to experience natural dreams again. Arthur & Eames give the compound a try.Written for Inception Reverse Bang, inspired by art from Motetus.





	Breaking Bread

"Well, this is anticlimactic," Eames says as he strolls through the perfectly ordinary square. They're in one of the numerous green spaces of London, facing a narrow street and some buildings across the way. Unless Eames is given a layout to memorize, his dreams tend to spring up faded and blurry at the edges--like a photograph that's just out of focus. The only things that are clearly articulated are the projections milling about outside the building and the 'PUB' sign above the door.

"The notable effects of this Somnacin blend come after we take it, not during," Arthur says.

"Thank you for that succinct summary of the obvious, Arthur," Eames replies. "I'm sure I'd simply perish without you telling me things I already know."

Arthur gives him a withering look. "It just seemed like you were expecting an acid trip. I brought you here to work, not taste a rainbow."

"Acid trip, eh?" Eames leans against a vaguely tree shaped object in the middle of the square. "Are we speaking from personal experience?"

"I don't know what you choose to do in your free time, but my body is a temple and I treat it as such," Arthur says, sounding so unbearably pompous Eames forgets why he ever wanted to sleep with Arthur in the first place. 

While Eames is mulling over this, Arthur takes a seat at a nearby bench. Arthur's impeccably tailored trousers draw tight against his crotch, fabric straining around the outline of what must be an impressively sized prick and oh right, now Eames remembers.

Eames brushes an imaginary piece of lint from his sleeve to avoid being caught staring. "I may have participated in some ill-advised, drug-fueled orgies in the wilder evenings of my youth, but those days are firmly behind me now. Ingesting any sort of narcotic while Somnacin might still be coursing through your system is an excellent recipe for blindness, paralysis, or death. None of which currently appeal."

There's a moment of silence, and when Eames looks up, Arthur's turned away, one leg crossed over his knee. "Well, good," Arthur says gruffly. "The last thing I need is for you to OD before this job is over."

Eames prides himself on the ability to read his surroundings, to understand the nuances of the human condition through years of finely honed observation. But he'll be the first to admit to his blind spots. The list includes, but is not limited to the following: children under the age of five, women with near total facial paralysis, and people Eames finds simultaneously irritating and sexually attractive. 

Arthur doesn't fall into the first two categories (thankfully), but being a difficult human being is likely coded into his very DNA. That, combined with his awe-inspiring ability to fill out a suit, leave Eames confounded more often than he would like and rather tetchier as a result. He can never be certain whether the edge of condescension he detects is an actual jab or simply Arthur's normally arrogant manner of speaking.

Ah well. When in doubt, go with a joke and keep it light. "Is this concern I hear over the state of my person?" Eames asks.

After a brief pause, "Don't flatter yourself. If Korematsu could guarantee a success rate of higher than 50% with remote dreaming, I'd be doing it. But as it is, I can't be in two places at once and you're one of the less unreliable thieves I know."

"My god, I'm swooning." Eames lifts the back of his hand up to his forehead and arches back against the tree, eyelashes fluttering. "Your inspirational words are carrying me away on a wave of backhanded compliments and tepid praise."

Arthur snorts, but there's a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Like you've ever given a shit about what I have to say."

There are so many things wrong with that statement that Eames hardly knows where to start, but he's certainly not going to correct Arthur on the matter. Instead, Eames glances back to where projections are staggering out of the pub, obviously drunk, and says, "I've secured employment as Mark A's driver for the upcoming week. Have you made any changes to the layout since we last reviewed it? I leave tomorrow morning and there won't be any time for us to meet before I go under with her."

"Not to mention you'll be three provinces away by the second day," Arthur says dryly. "And no, no changes. Everything's been finalized and I'll be going under with Mark B on the same day, as discussed."

"Good." Eames watches one of his stumbling projections bump into another. "After both pieces of information are extracted, we meet at the rendezvous point and then present our findings to the client."

"Now who's summarizing the obvious?" Arthur asks as he turns to watch Eames' projections, too. "Seems like they're having a good time."

"Just wait," Eames says as the projections square off against each other, circling like animals about to lock horns. "This is the good part." As he's speaking, one projection hurls a creative string of invective at the other, setting off a chain reaction of shouting, posturing, and finally, a wrestling match on the ground.

"Charming," Arthur says. "I forgot how delightful your projections could be."

A woman walking nearby stops and says, "Being falling-down ratted and starting public brawls is an English national pastime. Why do you think we invented rugby?"

Arthur leaps off the bench and has his Glock trained on the projection in the moment it takes to blink. She holds her hands up on the air and looks over at Eames as she says, "Steady on, mate. No harm meant."

Arthur lowers his gun with a little sigh. Eames raises an eyebrow and says, mildly, "Jumpy, are we?"

"I forgot how creepily lifelike your projections could be," Arthur says sourly. "And _chatty_."

Before Eames can respond, the woman shrugs. "He may be a right arse, but you do have to give it to him, chief. Your mind is a mighty unsettling place. Wouldn't want to be around when you start naturally dreaming again." 

"See? Even your subconscious agrees with me," Arthur says, then pauses. "Wait."

"Alright, that's quite enough from the peanut gallery." Eames makes shooing motions, and with a cranky expression reminiscent of some of Arthur's finest, the projection trundles off. 

Arthur glances back at where the two male projections are still tussling on the ground; one of them has the other in a headlock. "Friends of yours?"

"I think she used to serve tea at a restaurant I frequented." Eames shrugs dismissively. "Spoke with her a few times but never learned her name. The other two I know even less about."

"I don't know how you do that." Arthur shakes his head. "Even your projections have opinions on your dreamscapes."

"Well, they are based on actual people who exist topside," Eames says irritably. "And actual people have opinions."

"No, I know. It's—" Arthur cuts off and shakes his head. "I've been in a lot of minds and nobody has projections as fully realized as yours. It just seems like it'd be easy to lose track of what's real and what's not in your dreams."

"Again, your concern for my wellbeing is touching, but unnecessary," Eames says. The brawling projections finally collapse in a heap on the ground, panting and exhausted. One has his hand on the other's arse.

Much as he hates to admit it, Arthur's point isn't entirely unfounded. Scornful rumors abound throughout the dreamshare community about people who reject relationships with flesh and blood people in favor of fraternization with projections. 

Most projections are only a pale shadow of a human—the echo of desires a dreamer ascribes to a mannequin. Easily controlled, always agreeable, and inevitably predictable. The perfect blow up doll to come home to at the end of a difficult day, and as happy as a golden retriever to see you. All conveniently missing the dreadful complexity that inevitably comes with linking your life to an actual human being.

But Eames' projections have the capacity to do more than ordinary projections, up to and including the ability to surprise him from time to time—something that can lead to a very slippery road away from reality. For that reason, he's taken great care over the years to limit his interactions on jobs to only those most essential. He takes it one step further in his rare bouts of recreational dreaming, always creating scenarios that don't involve projections. 

"Fine." Arthur's voice is clipped. "Forget I said anything."

"Already have," Eames says, impatient for this particular dream to be over. "Now, is there any other business which needs to be handled or are we done here?"

Arthur brings his Glock to his temple. "See you next week."

* * * * *

_FIRST DREAM_

 

Eames opens his eyes to a boxing ring. There's the dull roar of a crowd all around him and the blinding heat of a spotlight shining down on his head. In front of him is a mountain of a man, lips protruding around a mouthguard, sweat dripping down his prominent brow. His nostrils flare as he takes a swing. 

Eames tries to duck but he's too slow—or perhaps his opponent is too fast. The punch lands against his temple, a shocking bloom of pain that sends him reeling backwards, but is ultimately cut short by a second punch in the stomach, then his ribcage. Eames hears something crack, but he's not sure whether that's a bone or merely the sound of the audience applauding. There's blood mixing with sweat in his eyes; something's trickling into his ear, distorting his hearing.

He can barely focus with the overload of sensation: the feeling of more blows landing across his body, the throb of existing injuries, the abrasion of the ropes against his bare back. Eames makes feeble attempts to duck, to land a punch or kick of his own, but it's useless—his opponent moves with superhuman speed, agility, and strength.

Eames is dreaming. His first natural dream in close to ten years, and this is what he gets: the stuffing beat out of him.

But as suddenly as he'd been dropped into the boxing ring, Eames is jerked away to a new setting. Gone is the ring, the opponent, the heat of the lamps overhead. In their place is a swirl of brightly colored settings: a waterfall, a meadow in Scotland he hasn't been to since he was small, a bamboo forest floor. 

After a confusing minute the dream seems to stabilize, settling into something far more mundane and all too familiar: an empty warehouse.

Eames balls his hands into fists and then releases them, reveling in the newfound freedom from boxing gloves. He wipes at his brow and his fingers don't come away wet, but his face feels swollen, tender. Still, it's a vast improvement over getting his skull caved in by a projection.

And then Arthur appears.

"Your face," Arthur says, "looks like a plate of lasagna."

Of course no interaction with Arthur—even a projection—would be complete without some sort of verbal assault.

"What a lovely greeting," Eames replies. "Perhaps you'd like to insult my parentage or breeding whilst on the topic of matters I can't control?"

"Sorry," Arthur says, and seems genuinely contrite. "It's just—strange to see you here. Unexpected."

"We work in dreams and dream about work." Eames glances around the warehouse, which is an exact replica of their real workspace down to the mess of papers Eames had scattered across the table in order to drive Arthur a bit batty. "Aside from Mark A, you're the last person I've interacted with for more than ten minutes in months. I suppose it shouldn’t be all that surprising."

"Maybe not. But I never would have thought I'd see you in a dream with your face looking like that." Arthur holds up a hand mirror and Eames starts a little. The blood and sweat might be gone, but it almost hurts just to see his swollen visage. "Or fully clothed, for that matter."

Eames stops peering at himself in the mirror long enough to squint at his Arthur-shaped projection. "What was that?"

"What the hell happened to you?" Arthur lowers his hand and the mirror vanishes, only to be replaced with a folding chair that he offers to Eames in an uncharacteristic display of consideration. Any slight doubts that Eames might have harbored about the nature of this dream or the projection of Arthur within it instantly dissipate. 

Eames turns away from the chair and eases himself onto a cardboard box nearby, altering the flaps of its lid to support his arse in a cushiony fashion. "I was in the midst of a rather spectacular brouhaha before being summoned here. It was thirty to one."

"What were you fighting over?"

"Oh, the usual," Eames replies breezily. "Wounded pride, ancient history, that sort of thing."

"I didn't think your pride was capable of being wounded," Arthur says. "Nothing seems to get to you."

"You'd be surprised at the hurts I'm still nursing tenderly," Eames says. There'd been a time, long ago, when he'd thought Arthur and he could be something more than cordial—at the time—coworkers. But Arthur had responded with an unequivocal no and five years later, Eames is over it. Mostly.

"You do always find ways to surprise me," Arthur says, and his voice is quiet, thoughtful. "Usually I figure out everything there is to know about someone within a couple of weeks."

"Background checks aren't everything," Eames says, watching the rain streak down the warehouse windows, leaving the outside world little more than a grey outline.

"No, they aren't," Arthur says. "But you'd think five years would be long enough to learn something."

* * * * *

_SECOND DREAM_

 

The next night, Eames' mind is free of both warehouses and projections. Instead, he dreams of falling—a series of uncontrolled dives off towers and cliffs and planes. It reminds him of his SAS days, a period of his life he has no desire to return to. 

Waking is a relief after his fiftieth fall off a bridge.

* * * * *

_THIRD DREAM_

 

"I can't believe I'm about to say this, but it's good to see you." Eames drops into a seat across from Arthur. They're in a seedy diner complete with red faux leather booth seating and fading formica tabletops. It's not the sort of place Eames would ever envision Arthur in, but somehow he doesn't seem as out of place as Eames would have expected.

"Even in my mind you're insufferable," Arthur says, lifting a mug of watery coffee to his lips. It smells absolutely horrid.

So this projection isn't aware it's a projection. Interesting, but it does happen occasionally. "Is that the first word that comes to mind when you think of me?" Eames asks, genuinely curious about the answer his subconscious will concoct. "Insufferable?"

"There's also exasperating and frustrating and stubborn," Arthur replies. "Are any of those doing it for you?"

"Why do you keep working with me, then?"

"Because your work is flawless," Arthur says, blinking as if he's startled by the question. "You're brilliant and relentless and understand people in a way I could never hope to. There's nobody I want more on my side than you."

Eames steals a triangle of Arthur's burnt toast to cover how thrown he feels. "Why don't you ever say such things to me topside?"

"Because you know. Of course you know." Arthur cocks his head to one side. "Don't you?"

"Well yes, but it's not as if a lady will ever grow tired of compliments," Eames says, smearing jam across the toast. "Feel free to insert some platitude about morale and teamwork here."

Arthur is quiet for a moment, watching Eames eat his toast. "Okay. I'll try to be—I'll tell you more often from now on."

Eames raises an eyebrow. "That was easy."

"What can I say?" Arthur grins, and it's devilishly charming in a way Eames has never seen before. "You have good ideas."

"I do, don't I?" Eames can't help the pleased smile that spreads over his face as Arthur take a bite of his tragically flat waffle. As he watches Arthur eat, Eames' eye is caught by a folded-up newspaper tucked in the corner of the table, behind the salt and pepper shakers.

Eames calls for a waitress to catch Arthur's attention, then swipes the newspaper. He scans the headlines, but the words are blurry, unclear. All he can make out are 'cock-sucking' and 'bend over' and 'fucking till next—' before Arthur snatches the paper back.

"Hey," Arthur says, reddening slightly. "That's mine."

"How very saucy." Eames leans back in his seat, deeply amused by Arthur's visible discomfort. "Fantasizing about that wife of yours, are we?"

Arthur had been married. _Had_ being the operative word, as both know perfectly well. Eames never met the girl, though according to a mate of his who had, she was beautiful, brilliant, and mad as a hatter. 

"You know I've been divorced for two years, Eames." Arthur doesn't meet his eyes as he holds a lighter to the corner of the newspaper. 

"One of the marks, then?" Eames keeps his tone light, but watches Arthur carefully. "A bit geriatric for my tastes, but perhaps—"

"I know you think coy is a good look on you, but it's really not," Arthur says as the rest of the newspaper goes up in flames.

"Don't be ridiculous," Eames says, slouching in his seat. "Everything looks good on me."

"Insufferable," Arthur mutters, but there's a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"Come now, you can tell me," Eames wheedles. Normally he wouldn't push so hard, but now he's genuinely curious about the secrets his subconscious has invented for Arthur. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

"I already know how to perform inception," Arthur says. "And I'm the best at what I do. What could you possibly know that would interest me?"

"Sometimes when we're in the warehouse alone together, I fantasize about dropping to my knees and sucking that big, gorgeous cock you're hiding in your suits," Eames says, all traces of teasing abruptly gone.

Arthur spits, coffee flying across the table to nearly land on Eames' face. Sadly, this deeply unflattering vignette does nothing to diminish Eames' desire to perform filthy acts upon Arthur's person. "You—I—are you fucking with me? Is this some kind of bad joke to you?"

"You needn't act so surprised," Eames replies, grumpily. "I did ask you out to dinner."

"Well, yeah, but that was eons ago and then you got so antagonistic I assumed that—wait, is that why you've been in such a foul mood with me for the past five years?" Arthur sounds incredulous. "Because I turned you down?"

"Don't be absurd," Eames starts, but it's too late.

"You—I—" Arthur shakes his head. "I was _married_!"

"Didn't stop you from having a roll around with Alvarez, now did it?" Eames snaps. And, alright, perhaps he's still a bit more peeved than he'd care to admit.

Arthur opens his mouth to retort, halts, and shuts it again. "No, I guess it didn't." He shakes his head with a wry smile. "I could say something about extenuating circumstances but it doesn't really matter in the end, does it?"

"No, it doesn't." Eames lifts his chin and sniffs. "Anyway, water under the bridge and all that. Ancient history."

"So this whole time, you've still wanted to—" Arthur scrubs a hand across his face. "Goddamnit, Eames. We could have been fucking for the past two years!"

Eames had caught Arthur giving him appraising--appreciative--stares more than once (Arthur was nowhere near as subtle as he seemed to believe he was). So the statement doesn't come as a complete surprise and yet—yet it takes Eames aback. Blast his Arthur-shaped blind spot. "Why didn't you bloody say something?"

"What was I supposed to say?"

"You could have asked me out, for starters."

"I could have. It's just--" Arthur lowers his eyes, and unfortunately for Eames, the move makes the projection look infinitely fuckable. Much like everything else. "I've never--exactly--"

"You're a virgin?" Eames gasps. "Your body has never known the sweet touch of a man's embrace, never surrendered to--"

"No, you _ass_ , I meant I've never asked a guy out before." Arthur shakes his head. "Virgin. Jesus. I'm thirty-three, not thirteen."

"So," Eames says as he slides out of the booth and turns away from Arthur—ostensibly to stretch, but really to give the projection a better view of his backside, "what do we do now?"

There's no reply, and after a moment, Eames turns around. 

Arthur is gone. Even in dreams Arthur can't help being difficult.

* * * * *

_FOURTH DREAM_

 

Eames' fourth dream sets him in a dark room next to a giant wheel of cheese being spun by Cobb. It's better than infinite falling, but not by much.

"Round and round it goes," Cobb says with an unnervingly perky smile. "Where it stops—"

"We all know," Eames interrupts.

Cobb looks put out for a moment before he sees something over Eames' right shoulder and his expression brightens. "Arthur!"

"Arthur," Eames echoes, more warily. Do projections have any sort of persistent memory? He's never interacted enough with any particular one to know.

"Mr. Eames," Arthur says, as he rolls up his sleeves and takes a step forward into a perfectly placed spotlight. "I'm going to rip off all your clothes and suck your cock."

"Well." Eames blinks. "I certainly shan't protest."

"Arthur!" Cobb says, voice taking on a squeaky edge. "What are you—"

"Get lost, Cobb," Arthur says, holding up a gun without ever taking his eyes off Eames. 

Sputtering with indignation, Cobb nevertheless takes his leave. The surroundings shift and a bed appears, the wheel of cheese looming up behind it like some sort of demented headboard.

"I have to admit, this is not how I imagined our first time together," Eames says as he begins unbuttoning his shirt.

Arthur chuckles, but it's more fond than mocking. "What? Cheddar isn't your fetish?"

"Only Swiss and Muenster on every third Saturday," Eames replies as Arthur makes good on his promise to rip off all Eames' clothing.

The sex is fantastic, but hazy—defined by indistinctness, in the way that natural dreams and drug trips can be. It's more than a little frustrating as Eames tries to hold on to all of the details: the way Arthur kisses, hungry and confident but not overbearing; the way Arthur's scarred skin feels under Eames' fingertips; the quiet intensity with which he lifts Eames' legs up and presses in, in, in. After that, it's nothing but blurred sensation, Arthur's gasping breaths in Eames' ear and the burn of pleasure up and down his body.

They fuck four times—maybe five—in every configuration, with all the grasping eagerness of teenage boys. Arthur, or at least the projection of Arthur, is a marvellous shag and as gorgeous as Eames suspected underneath all the clothing. The extent of the scarring down his abdomen and legs is a bit surprising, but Eames' mind is likely extrapolating the location of old wounds based on what he's seen of Arthur wincing over injuries. Not that Eames is complaining—the lines of raised white flesh make for excellent paths to trail his fingers (or tongue) down.

"I was hoping I'd see you again," Arthur says while Eames investigates the scarring across his right kneecap. "Then I saw Cobb and thought, oh shit. There's a place I definitely don't want to go, even with you."

"Not open to threesomes, then?" Eames asks, experimentally trying to tickle Arthur behind the knee. He kicks out, but only a little.

"Not involving Cobb."

"And here I thought he was your oldest and dearest boon companion," Eames teases, and Arthur flicks his ear lightly. "Why did you stay so long with him, anyway? The man's deranged. Not to mention a total knob."

Eames expects a brush off to the question. But Arthur pauses a moment, seeming to give it serious thought. "My therapist says I have a pattern of being drawn to difficult and unstable personalities."

"Is that right?" Eames glances over at Arthur; he wouldn't have taken Arthur for the therapy sort, and certainly not the kind who would ever admit to it if he was. But then again, Americans do love nothing so much as the sound of their own voices. "Gives you an opportunity to impose order on a relationship, hm?"

"That and—" Arthur hesitates. "I like feeling needed. It's a way of avoiding situations where I might have to ask for help because I know they can't give it to me."

"Spoken like a man who has sipped the Kool-Aid," Eames says. "I never took you for the couches and feelings type."

"Everything we do in dreamwork is couches and feelings," Arthur says. "You know that better than anyone."

"I am but a simple dreamsmith," Eames says. "Crafting simple webs."

Arthur snorts. "Your life is figuring out what makes people tick and you're amazing at it. Almost every job we've ever worked together has hung on your ability to dissect the mark."

"And yet you remain ever the mystery to me." Eames sits up to study Arthur's face. The youth and innocence of it belying the truth the rest of his body reveals. "Fascinating, really."

* * * * *

_FIFTH DREAM_

 

The fifth dream is spent wandering about the surface of the moon, and Mars, and along the rings of Saturn. After a while, staring at barren landscapes dotted with rocks grows quite tedious. There aren't even any projections to help pass the time.

If Eames is honest with himself, there's really only one projection he'd like to pass the time with. And that, in and of itself, is an alarming thought indeed.

* * * * *

SIXTH DREAM

 

Eames is leafing through a large, coffee table book. The glossy pages are filled with crisp renderings of paradoxical architecture, detailed blueprints of maze-like layouts. 

Arthur leans across the table to tap a page. "Hey, that's one of mine."

Eames studies the spiraling tower of a building laid out on the page before him, its loops falling back onto each other and overlapping the top to the bottom in infinite impossibility, and says, "They're all yours."

Arthur's hand stills. "You—you remember."

"Every single one," Eames replies, flipping to the next page, which contains a vivid rendering of a Francis Bacon painting. "Even when we worked against each other on that Schimizu job, I knew as soon as I dropped in that I was in one of your layouts. There's always an elegance there, a calming sense of order amidst the paradoxes."

"I'm no architect, but I think that's maybe the nicest thing you've ever said to me," Arthur says quietly. 

"So it is," Eames says, and shuts the book. "May I ask you a question?"

Arthur conjures himself a steak, fork, and knife. "Sure, why not?"

"What was it like, being married?"

"It was nice at first," Arthur says, after a pause. "Hopeful. People get married because they think, I want to spend every single day of the rest of my life with you and I can't imagine anything ever changing that. Or they get married because they're scared of being alone. Either way, they think they've got it made in certain ways, and the security of that can be very—gratifying. Even if it's an illusion."

"Has being married made you a cynic?"

"Not a cynic. But more careful. More aware, probably."

"Right," Eames says, watches Arthur eat his steak for a long few minutes in silence.

"My ex-wife once left me at a rest stop in the middle of nowhere," Arthur says, and it feels sudden, unexpected.

Eames blinks, not sure what to say. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. We were driving down one of those endless highways in some bumfuck square state and needed to pull over for gas. It was truckers and nothing else for miles." Arthur stares down at his food. "We got in an argument while we were eating and she stormed out. I stayed to finish my piece of shit greasy burger and paid. When I walked outside, the car was gone and so was she."

Eames watches the tiny muscle jumps in Arthur's jaw as he makes another cut with his knife. "What did you do?"

"I called. Texted. Waited for three hours before I finally hitched a ride to the nearest town." Arthur pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice shakes. "I was so angry, so—humiliated. I went to the bathroom to splash some water on my face and ended up vomiting all over the sink instead."

"Arthur," Eames says. With a thought, the table between them falls away and they're seated together on a beach somewhere, the waves rolling in gently over their feet. But Arthur looks straight ahead, seeming not to see.

"I should have left her then. But I didn't."

"Why?"

"Because we'd had some good times. Because I'd spent so many years with her already. Because—because I was fucking terrified of being alone." Arthur huffs a laugh. "Pathetic, I know. Nobody held a gun to my head and said: you need to stay or else. I did it to myself."

"I've seen much worse than your particular brand of relationship insanity," Eames says. "Trust me."

"Yes, I suppose you have." Arthur looks over at Eames, finally, eyes wide and dark and open. "She was the one that left me, you know. Of the two of us, she was always braver."

Eames reaches out to put a palm over Arthur's sternum, fingers spreading like a starfish. "If you're looking for a similar confession of romantically attributed madness from me, I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint. After watching my parents wear each other down into hardened nubs of misery, I decided: why bother with all this nonsense when you can have sex instead?"

Arthur smiles faintly. "And how's that worked out for you?"

"Oh, swimmingly. Until my first and only defeat in sexual conquest."

"Are you telling me that you'd never been turned down before me?" Arthur's eyebrows almost reach his hairline. "Seriously? I was your first rejection?"

"First and only," Eames repeats. "Which set us down this merry road."

"And what road is that?"

"The one in which I wonder how I could have ever read you so wrong." Eames touches a thumb to the hollow of Arthur's throat. "And I’m forced to concede that there's more to you than I could have anticipated."

"I'm just another pretty face," Arthur says solemnly, tracing the scar across Eames' eyebrow gently. "Don't let the war wounds fool you."

Eames leans forward to brush his lips across Arthur's. "Takes one to know one, hm?"

* * * * *

_SEVENTH DREAM_

 

The thing between him and Arthur—scratch that, a projection of Arthur—has gotten entirely out of hand, Eames knows. There's yielding to the inevitable randomness of dreams and then there's spending entirely too many of those dream minutes thinking about the endearing tousle of Arthur's hair. There's indulging in magnificent dream sex and then there's rushing through the day in eager anticipation of the night.

It's completely unacceptable, and Eames won't stand for it.

On the other hand, it's not as if this situation will continue into perpetuity. The Somnacin side effects will fade, the natural dreams will cease, and, most importantly, Eames will reunite with the real Arthur. The stick-in-the-mud who could only hope to one day contain the depths that Eames' subconscious has concocted, and a fraction of the charm or humor. The flesh-and-blood Arthur will bring Eames back to a cold and unimaginative reality soon enough.

Until then, there's no point in ruining a perfectly enjoyable activity, is there? At least, that's what Eames tells himself when he tackles Arthur into the side of a fluffy, multi-layered strawberry shortcake as big as a house.

Arthur emerges, sputtering but smiling, and Eames takes great pains in licking every single crevasse in which icing or sticky strawberry sauce might have ended up.

After they've fucked, and fucked again, Arthur lies flat on his back next to the giant shortcake and says, "Where are we, anyway?"

"Devil if I know," Eames says, and rolls over to throw a leg over both of Arthur's. "Fancy another tumble?"

"It's amazing how your utter lack of charm is rendered charming by virtue of your accent," Arthur says, but he's already cupping Eames' arse again.

"Do you know that I cycled through ten regional English accents before settling on this one?"

"Let me guess: you chose this one because it got you laid most often."

"God, that would have been excellent decision-making criteria, wouldn't it?" Eames says and Arthur laughs.

"Wait, stop," Eames says. "Do that again."

"What?" Arthur looks up at Eames quizzically.

"You laughed. At something I said." Eames brings a hand up to cup Arthur's face, strokes a thumb over his cheek. "You dimpled."

Arthur's expression softens. "I laugh at things."

"Not at the things I say," Eames replies. "Until now, apparently."

"I just worry sometimes that the joke is on me. That I—" Arthur shakes his head. "That I'll miss the punchline."

"I suppose it's also possible that my jokes are not particularly funny," Eames admits.

"Wait, what's happening? Are you conceding to being less than 100% perfect and godlike?" Arthur pokes Eames in the stomach until he can't help but laugh, and for a few minutes it's all so very easy, so wonderful, so—

"I'll miss this," Arthur says. "When the Somnacin side effects wear off, I mean."

"There's nothing quite like you," Eames says, though he meant to say was, _there's nothing quite like natural dreams_. But then again, his mind has already betrayed him in so many ways—what's another one to add to the pile?

Arthur reaches out to stroke Eames' eyebrow once more. "I wish you really—"

He vanishes, halfway through a sentence and without warning.

Eames closes his eyes. Moments later, he too, wakes up.

* * * * *

_REUNION_

 

The reunion with the real Arthur exceeds even Eames' dismal expectations: Arthur is in rare form all day, crankiness somehow having multiplied in Eames' absence and reproduced prolifically with pettiness. Arthur is curt, utterly without humor, and so tense he jumps nearly three feet in the air when Eames comes up behind him. In other words: everything is back to normal, as unpleasant as it was before.

Except for the moments when Eames catches Arthur watching him out of the corner of his eye, the strangest expression on his face. It's neither bored irritation nor simple lust but something more complex. Forlorn, perhaps, if Eames indulges his own wishful thinking. Constipated is probably closer to the truth.

"The client's favorite food is lobster," Eames says as Arthur writes the address of the rendezvous point on the whiteboard in jagged, blocky letters. "Perhaps we should relocate to a restaurant that'll put her in a better mood for bad news."

"I am aware of what the client I brought in likes and doesn't like," Arthur says snippily. "The reservations have already been made and—"

"I'm simply pointing out that since we haven't the best news to report, perhaps it's time for plans to change, even if that would require something as difficult as a phone call to alter reservations," Eames says, and alright, it is possible that his behavior isn't helping the situation.

Arthur says nothing, and Eames realizes he's taking some very deep breaths. "Maybe we should break for lunch," Arthur says, after a long moment. "I could use a burger."

"Fine," Eames says, but can't resist adding, "and I'll make some reservations for a lobster dinner."

Arthur goes to gather his things while Eames practically sprints for the door, ready to leave the suffocating atmosphere of the warehouse. He drives to a sandwich shop not too far away and puts in an order, daydreaming idly about how Arthur's arse looks in—and out—of his trousers. The tragedy of Eames' life is that such a remarkable arse and huge dick could be attached to such an intolerable personality.

When Eames gets back to the warehouse, Arthur is writing a new address on the whiteboard—huh, so he did go ahead and take Eames' advice to change restaurants. Unexpected.

Eames goes to his desk to open his order and swears softly under his breath.

"What is it?" Arthur asks.

"The sodding restaurant put cheddar on my sandwich. Again," Eames says, picking out the half melted slices and wincing when one burns his thumb. "I don't care for cheese much to begin with, and even then it's only—"

"Swiss and Muenster on every third Saturday, right?" Arthur says absently, and Eames freezes. They both do.

"What did you say?" Eames asks as he puts down his sandwich and reaches for his totem.

To his credit, Arthur doesn't try to go back on his words. Instead, he turns towards Eames and repeats clearly, "Swiss and Muenster on every third Saturday. Why? Does that mean something to you?"

"It means you've been snooping about in my dreams," Eames says. "Uninvited."

"We were both dreaming natural dreams," Arthur says. "There's no way—"

"Has anybody else tried using that particular blend of Somnacin in a shared dream?" Eames asks tightly.

"No. Korematsu told me it's a refined formulation of his older one. It's only been tried by twenty people, all individually." Arthur's hands ball into fists. "His experiments with remote dreaming—there's no way they could—"

"Overlap?" Eames wipes his fingers on a napkin. He should feel angry, horrified by everything Arthur might know, perhaps even violated (though everyone in dreamshare eventually learns to accept that privacy in sleep is a luxury that could be stripped at any moment)--but the anger is giving way to curiosity. All he can think about is about whether Arthur's prick is as big as it is in dreams. If he fucks the same way.

Eames takes five steps forward to crowd Arthur back against the whiteboard. "Only one way to determine for sure, hm?"

Arthur meets Eames' eyes levelly for a long moment and says, "Guess so."

Then he grabs Eames by the shoulders and kisses him.

Kissing Arthur in reality is similar to kissing him in dreams, yet strikingly dissimilar at the same time. In reality, their mouths don't fit together nearly so easily without the magic of dream physics to smooth the way. In reality, Arthur's breath tastes like saliva and bacon and ground beef. In reality, when Arthur turns Eames around and bends him over the drafting table, the hard edge juts uncomfortably into Eames' gut and he's certain he'll leave the encounter with at least ten more splinters than he started with.

But Arthur's scar-kissed skin feels the same, the heat of his dick, the grip of his fingers on Eames' hips. In reality, Arthur sweats like a hog, takes too long to come, and makes Eames love every bloody second of it.

"Joint remote dreaming," Arthur says later, when they're lying side by side on a scraggly, dirty blanket he dug out of god knows where. "You thought you were fucking a projection of me?"

"Yes," Eames says. "Before you claim some illusory higher ground, I should point out you were doing the same."

Arthur sits up. "How could you not know? How could you think I was some—"

"My projections are all so bloody lifelike, that's how," Eames says. "A fact you have remarked upon more than once."

"And you didn't guess when we fucked and I had these—" Arthur stops, but it's too late. Arthur's hand is splayed over his abdomen protectively, where the scarring is worst.

"Arthur," Eames whispers, sitting up, too. "Did you really think I'd—"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Arthur," Eames repeats, and bends to kiss the scars that crisscross over Arthur's knees, down his shins, and up his thighs. He gently pries each of Arthur's fingers off his abdomen and holds them away while he leans down to kiss Arthur's hard belly, his chest.

By the time Eames is finished, Arthur is lying flat on his back, breathing hard through his nostrils. "How could you not know?" Arthur asks. "When I showed you so much?"

"You're the worst blind spot I've ever had," Eames says. "And I've wanted you for so long I thought—I thought my dreams were simply serving up my fantasies. It was too much to hope for anything more than that."

Arthur swallows, Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "What do we do now?"

"Perhaps we could—" Eames lays his head on Arthur's chest, tentatively, carefully, "start this conversation over?"

Arthur doesn't move away, and Eames listens to the beat of Arthur's heart, feels the rise and fall of his chest beneath his ear. One deep breath, then two. "Yeah," Arthur says, voice quiet, soft. "I think I'd like that."

 

fin


End file.
